The Meaning of a Faith
by Kay the Cricketed
Summary: [Ron/Draco slash of sorts] In their seventh year, Draco asks to be saved. Not all requests can be granted. Not all love can be enough. Not all death is lasting...


_The Meaning of a Faith_

By Kay 

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter. If I did, there would be abnormal amounts of snogging Sirius and Draco into random desks, and a legion of psychotics running after Snape to bring him to me. God, I wish. 

Author's Notes: I've written a lot of Harry Potter-- but I almost never post them, because it's one fandom I'm rather insecure over. I probably shouldn't post this. But I'm going to. ^^;; Even though Ron/Draco slash isn't as fun as Harry/Draco, which I usually write, or Remus/Sirius-- it's still worth doing. And this idea wouldn't leave me until I'd written it out, so here we are. My OOC writing and horrible plot-work attempts. ^^;; 

I hope you learn something. Enjoy. 

~~~~~ 

    When a disgruntled Vincent Crabbe dropped the envelope in his lap during lunch, Ron _knew_ it wasn't something he wanted to read. 

    After the large, overbearing thug had dismissed himself (with a final narrow glare aimed towards the stunned Gryffindors), he still hadn't picked it up. It laid there innocently, oblong and perfectly smooth, glowing bright white against his ashen black robes. The flap side had landed up, sealed shut with an almost offending neatness-- that was the first sign of warning to the redhead. Ron had lived long enough with his father to know that letters bearing neat seals were always of importance, and therefore, generally an omen of suspiciously bad news. 

    He stole a furtive glance across the room. Almost everyone was looking at him; everyone wanted to see the reaction on Ronald Weasley's face when he opened the letter that just _had_ to be from Draco Malfoy. 

    There was no doubt about it. Indeed, after Hermoine's distant prodding forced him to reluctantly pick up the envelope, it was a proven fact. The front bore a marvelously complicated design that, on a close and squinting inspection, proved to be his full name. In circular, elaborate print. 

    How melodramatic. 

    Yes. First, Crabbe's stunning debut as a delivery boy. Then the exasperating fanciness of the envelope. And now his name, looking almost painfully ridiculous in such rich handwriting, concluded what he knew all along. 

    Why in the seven hell's was Draco Malfoy sending _him_ letters? 

    Ron chewed anxiously on his lip, damaging the flesh almost absently as he quickly scanned the room once more. By now the audience had decided he wasn't prone to opening the letter anytime soon, and had returned to gossiping cheerfully across the table tops and their lunches. Close inspection of the Slytherin table proved to be a fruitless venture-- although the usual goons were milling about, the letter-sending, arrogant blonde was missing amongst their numbers. In fact, Ron was suspiciously certain that he hadn't been there to begin with, and hence wasn't even interested in seeing what his reaction would be to this new development. It was almost unnerving, really. 

    His fingers played with the letter irritatingly. 

    _'Figures. That arrogant, prissy bastard can just go to hell for all I care. I don't even want to know what this is about.'_

    It couldn't be anything cordial, for sure. Although they were finally in their seventh year, having stumbled through the school ages with bad temperament and rotten blood lingering between them, very little had changed. Malfoy continued being an unbearable, smug prat. Ron never stopped thinking with his anger before his head. Such roadblocks only led to numerous occasions of fist fights, shrieking verbal abuse in the hallways, and an endless amount of blackened tension when they were in the same room together. Over the time, it had gotten so that even Professor Snape had moved their stations far apart from each other-- right after they accidentally knocked over an entire cauldron of a particularly nasty Deafening Draught, and landed the entire class without their hearing for an entire week. 

    After many incidents resulting like that, they started to avoid each other for survival issues. 

    Ron sighed and snuck another glance towards the Slytherin's nearly empty table. To be honest, it wasn't difficult to ignore that certain blonde anymore. During the war that had begun once again in the end of their fourth year, Malfoy had been an irritating bastard, nothing new. Voldemort's attacks were increasing in frequency, to a point that the Ministry was beginning to regret their ignorance, but to the redhead's surprise, the only indication in the school was the slowly dwindling amount of Slytherins. They decreased almost daily-- even now, the table only held scattered remains of what was once a proud and rudely ostentatious house. 

    He had been unsettled when Malfoy didn't disappear with the rest of them. Of course, the boy still had his ever-present sneer on his narrow features. He glared at Ron in the hallways, said all the right things, all the sneaky and cunning insults when he got the chance. He acted like he was part of Voldemort's little group of homicidal schoolchildren. But there still remained the fact that he hadn't left. 

    And now this letter. Ron glared down at it. 

    _'A trap, maybe? Some sort of practical joke he wants to play on me, to get a good laugh. Maybe he wants a last barb to drive in before he leaves. I bet he's leaving. Good riddance.'_

    It didn't sit well with him, though. This letter and the idea of a trap. Ron milled the idea over in his head further, turning the letter around to study it. Harry and Hermione both leaned in closer to see it, curiosity making them also abandon their lunches, but he ignored them. 

    It didn't feel like a trap. Malfoy hadn't tried anything truly dirty in quite a while. In fact, after the incident in a badly timed fight during dinner-- which Ron would swear to this day was not his fault, and that it was _completely_ unfair that they both received detentions it-- they had mostly gave each other a harsh cold shoulder. It seemed almost wrong that the reviling truce would come to an end. 

    _'That's what he wants you to think, though,'_ Ron's mind urged furiously. _'He lured you into a safe state! He's been waiting for a chance to humiliate yourself again. Throw it away. Don't even read it, you know it's not a good idea.'_

    "Well? Are you going to open it?" Harry interrupted his thoughts, a deep paranoia and curiosity lacing the tones of his voice. His green eyes were trained on the envelope, peering at it warily as though it would leap out and bite him. The deep suspicion had been born through the years, after too many attacks and attempts to destroy his life. It was a wonder he hadn't become cynical yet. Personally, Ron thought it was just a matter of time before his best friend flew the coop and started to become Alastor Moody's younger apprentice. (Though he'd never admit it to his friend, as much he cared about him.) "It's from Malfoy, isn't it?" 

    "Oh, who else could it be?" Hermione asked sensibly. She frowned down at it worriedly before echoing his earlier thoughts. "Just throw it away, Ron, it's probably some sort of malicious prank." 

    "Probably," he mumbled, but his fingers still clutched at the now-tearing corners. He tried to smooth it out again before stopping, struggling to figure out the movements of his hands. "But I want to know what it says. Even if it's cooked up rubbish, or if it'll make me mad…" 

    "Maybe it's a challenge," Harry offered. 

    "Or he could've put something dangerous in there," the brown-haired girl shot back. "You never know with Malfoy. Just because he's been hiding his face around here lately doesn't mean he hasn't been planning something." 

    "He's been hiding?" Ron asked, startled eyes flying up from the letter just as Harry demanded, "When?!" 

    Hermione arched an eyebrow at them both, looking slightly amused an exasperated. She made a short gesture towards the entrance of the room, explaining, "Well, he hasn't come to eat anything for the past two weeks or so. I expect he knows how to get into the kitchen, because unless he has a private stash of goods, there's no possible way for him to skip all these meals and still be perfectly healthy. We've seen him in class, too-- nothing's changed." 

    This was new to Ron's mind, and as he scanned his memory and fought to come up with some vague image of Malfoy being in the room with him, it wouldn't come. Just as the blonde had begun to ignore him, he'd started to forget the aggravating presence that once riled him so much. It was as though the creature called Draco Malfoy was a thorn in his side that he'd finally grown accustomed to, and therefore couldn't feel the pain resulting from it. 

    It was a little disconcerting. 

    "He hasn't eaten out here at all?" he repeated. Hermione shot Ron an exasperated look, huffing slightly and throwing her hair behind a shoulder. 

    "Well, not that I've seen. I don't know _where_ he is, but it's not here." 

    Ron could accept that. His friend always had an immeasurable talent for observation and memory, so if she said Malfoy didn't come to eat, well, he didn't come to eat. That was that. It was the idea in itself that made him pause for thought, and once again the redhead glanced down at the letter in his lap. 

    _'So he hasn't been down here lately. What's all this about? It's got to be a trick of some kind.'_

    His fingers were itching to open it. 

    "Look, I think Hermione is right. Just get rid of it," Harry said. 

    _'It's not that easy. You're in danger all the time-- it can't be something that bad. If it is, I can always go beat the smug little grin off of Malfoy's ugly face.' _ Ron sighed and bit his lip savagely again, bringing the letter up to his face. "I dunno. I think I'm going to open it, actually." 

    "Ron!" wailed Hermione, and his best friend let out a groan and dropped his jet-black head down to the table. 

    "I'll be careful," the redhead insisted stubbornly, already moving to take his fork and rip open the envelope. "I promise." Though he really couldn't keep it. 

    _'I wonder…'_ his mind whispered, and he carefully tore the seal open with the metal prongs. The result was a jagged, papery mess. Disgruntled, Ron threw off the envelope to the middle of the floor, producing from it a single folded sheet of parchment-- making Hermione and Harry sigh in relief. 

    Just a folded sheet of parchment. Ron stared at it blankly. 

    "What's it say?" 

    "I don't know," he answered absently, brown eyes trained warily on the sheet. Finally, he unfolded it, rolling his eyes when he registered the handwriting-- all in the same fancy curling style as his name had been on the envelope. How melodramatic. 

    Malfoy was such an idiot, honestly. 

    "What's it say? Does he want a duel or something?" Harry asked skeptically, straightening his glasses with one hand and balancing on the table with the other so that he could read over Ron's shoulder. The redhead blinked up at him. 

    "Um, not really. Well… maybe he does. It doesn't say much." And it didn't, which made Ron both burn with morbid curiosity and irritation. The letter was short and clipped, although somewhat subdued in Malfoy's usual arrogance, and it left him with nothing but more questions. The lines were smooth and even, but the words told him nothing that he could base his decision on. It was annoying, considering there was no way he could know what was happening without obeying the letter. 

    It had simply read: 

_ Weasley. If you value human decency, you'll meet me a quarter after midnight at the Herbology greenhouses. Wear a cloak, come alone. If you bring that insufferable git, Potter, or that annoying Mudblood, I'll make you wish you were never born. Tell no one, and bring this letter when you come. _

Please. 

-- Draco Malfoy 

    "How strange," Hermione said softly. She leaned back into her chair, a thoughtful and worried expression on her face. 

    "He knows how to say _please_?" Harry sputtered from behind Ron, disbelief and shock lathering in his voice. "To _you_?!" 

    "Maybe the arrogant prat has finally learned some manners," the redhead suggested, although doubt also laced his light-hearted tone. He peered closer at the letter. The words were meticulous in pure Malfoy-perfection style, each curved and written like a polite dinner invitation. The words themselves were worrying, however; in his entire seven years of knowing the boy, Ron had never heard him utter a single 'please' to anyone. Much less himself. 

    More than disturbing, it was frightening. 

    _'What's up with you, Malfoy?'_ he wondered, almost shakily folding the letter back up. His eyes scanned the room once more, but the familiar person he searched for was still missing. _'What's this all about?'_

    "You aren't going to go, are you?" Hermione asked sharply, glaring at Ron's distracted face in heavy retribution. "Oh, you _are_! I _know_ you are! Don't do it, he's just going to do something horrible and cruel, and you'll get into so much trouble. It's the last year, just let it lie this time…" 

    "He wouldn't go," Harry reassured her, looking cautiously at his friend. "Would you?" 

    Ron swallowed. "Erm…" 

    _'Why do I get the feeling I don't want to know?'_

    "Well… actually, I'm…" 

    _'But that I have to?'_

    "… yeah, probably going to go." 

    And amidst his friend's frantic protests and stubborn disagreement, Ron gently shoved the letter into his hands again, carefully smoothing the creases and trying to concentrate on the ever-growing uncertainty in his mind. 

    Because letters like these _always_ meant a large amount of bad news, and Draco Malfoy _never_ said please, so this could be only one thing-- the most horrible decision of his lifetime. 

    He was going to do it. But he already regretted it. 

~~~~ 

    "A quarter after midnight?! Why couldn't it have been less specific? Like maybe one o'clock in the morning; that's a sensible time, why's he got to be so damned _precise_, the loony prat--" 

    "Yes, yes," Hermione interrupted impatiently, stalling Ron's quick mutterings. "And if you don't get moving, you'll be late, so stop complaining and get out there." 

    Ron tossed a glare at her from under his lashes, still struggling to shove one of his boots on his foot. He was unable to keep it up, however, considering the fact that if it hadn't been for his friends, he would've bypassed the correct time entirely. After the day had been over with, he'd taken up playing a few quick games of chess with Seamus (who played miserably, but was far more entertaining than most people) and forgotten the time. Only when Hermione hunted him down did he realize it was already nearing midnight. 

    "God, this is rotten," he growled again. Whatever lunacy had possessed him to go this morning was quickly fleeing his brain. "Why am I goin' again?" 

    "Because you were the one who wanted to. Didn't listen to _my_ advice, did you?" 

    "Oh, yeah. You should talk me out of it," the redhead added hopefully, looking at Hermione with wide, innocent eyes. They produced a snort of amusement from the girl, but she only shook her head at him in reply. 

    _'Well, it was worth a try. She's still mad at me for agreeing to go in the first place.'_ Sighing, Ron shoved the last of his laces together, tying his boot up and standing. 

    "Be careful," was Harry's quiet warning as he passed. He acknowledged his scarred friend with a nod. 

    "Believe me, I plan to." 

    With that flippant, sighing statement, Ron whirled the Invisibility Cloak over his shoulders. (Harry had been adamant that he take it just in case, although he threatened to staple his kidneys to the nearest tourist attraction if Ron dared to loose his precious possession.) He pushed open the portrait entrance to the Gryffindor Tower, peering cautiously out into the hallways with a rather large sensation of foreboding and wariness. The halls were empty; however, it didn't comfort his mind. He hadn't been out alone much before, always preferring to accompany Harry on his mischief sprees in the middle of the night. 

    His footsteps sounded far too loud against the stones. 

    _'Okay. Okay, just get to the… the Herbology greenhouses, that's right. Stupid Malfoy. I'm going to beat his face in when I see him. What's the idea of all this?'_ Ron cast another furtive glance over his shoulder, shuddering at a small shadow that glided from the corner of a doorway. For a moment, he thought it had been Filch's evil cat, Mrs. Norris. 

    _'If I get caught, I'm dead.'_ His throat lumped up, and it took three entire swallows for Ron to get rid of it. _ 'So dead, Mum's going to kill me. But no, I'm not getting caught… not without Malfoy in trouble, too.'_

    The grim determination made his footsteps slide gracefully, and he strode through the empty and haunting hallways with no fear, save perhaps a flicker in his dark eyes. A flicker of something not like fear, but more of worry. 

    He was worried he'd be caught, yes. And he was still worried about the odd note from earlier. It didn't make him feel any better when he thought of the cold, almost afterthought notation at the end of the letter. 

    _'Please.'_

    _'What kind of a Malfoy says please?'_

    Certainly not _his_ kind. 

    And with this irritated, slightly amused thought, Ron Weasley found himself on the grounds of Hogwarts. Right into the silvery, pale moonlight, streaming in gentle drifts on nonexistent breezes and hooks in the air. The entire landscape was a silent, unearthly shade of gray and white, and tarnished light green in the grasses and trees of the looming Forbidden Forest. 

    It made him pause for a moment, and he stopped to think it was beautiful. 

    Once, when he was in his fifth year and struggling to remember when happiness could take him over, he'd come out here. Sometimes. Not late, but not early-- back when the moon was still lofting above his head, but no one worried when he came back, it wasn't that painstakingly late. Just enough that the sliver of dead sun in the sky could glimmer across the lake. 

    He remembered looking into its waters, sitting there splayed across a rock with his freckled nose inches from the surface. It was dark, that lake. Deep like an abyss, and ten times as dangerous with its addicting fall into faded, inky blackness. He remembered wondering what would happen if he slid into that surface. If it would tuck him under and he'd become a part of that beautiful, treacherous darkness. 

    He could be a part of something that was everything, away from all pain and ridicule. Something everyone wanted to look at, wanted to be. A chance he'd never had before… 

    _'But that was wrong,'_ his mind quietly supplied. _'You've had a chance to be there, and you chose the harder way. The good way. And you loved it.'_

    Yes. He had. 

    Ron stared at the placid lake a moment longer, his eyes automatically picking out the rock where he'd lain. Nothing looked different. He was two years older-- had a head full of experience and good things now, not like the troubled fifth year of Voldemort. But the rock looked the same, and the lake… that was always the same. 

    Shivering slightly, he tucked the Invisibility Cloak tighter around his shoulders. He shouldn't be thinking these thoughts tonight, not with the encounter with Malfoy to look forward to. He had to be on his toes, ready to dish out a fair bit of revenge, should he need it. Not thinking about lakes and two years ago and how nothing, not anything about this night felt right at all, and he hadn't thought about anything like that for ages. 

    _'Turn around and go back, go back to your room…' _

    But he couldn't-- something told him he couldn't. And as Ron realized that he was most definitely late by now, and hurried to scurry for the luminescent greenhouses in the distance, he felt a horrible sense of dissimilation. Even as the glass windows of the greenhouses gleamed white at him, Ron chided himself for being just as melodramatic as Draco Malfoy. 

    After all, even after the point of no return, one could always be pulled back. 

    Right? 

~~~~ 

    Ron had shuffled, taking off the Invisibility Cloak and folding it over his arm. It produced a slightly eerie effect-- one single section of his forearm was nothing but air. In the end, not wanting to give away this secret with Malfoy, he'd decided the wisest decision was to store it somewhere. After making a slight detour to stuff it inside an oak tree on the grounds, he'd continued to the greenhouses. 

    And, as he'd known, Malfoy was waiting for him. 

    "You're late." 

    "I had trouble finding the greenhouse you wanted," was all Ron said. He looked at Malfoy with his usual disdain and anger-- but also with curiosity now. This person whom he thought he knew so well, could trust to hate… who hadn't been eating, and sent him strange letters bearing strange words… 

    He looked at Malfoy; he stood against the greenhouse wall in nothing less than his usual arrogant, casual posture. Legs slightly crossed, arms twined over his chest in a gesture of irritation, much like his Mum used to do when she wanted to get a point across. He leant forward ever slightly, just enough so the moonlight caught his hair-- longer now than it had been before, pulled back like his father's, leaving locks of silvery white to brush against his narrow features. The moon washed out any blonde left within the strands. 

    It couldn't wash out his _eyes_, though. Those piercing, quiet gray eyes. They watched him, looking straight at him with unreadable granite shields. The color of storms, of steel and black ice, making his pale features seem even more smooth and unearthly pallid. They were eyes he'd hated, that spoke of disgust and superiority over him for so long. 

    They were silent now. Just watching. Just looking at him. 

    "I told you to bring a cloak," he said. Ron blinked at him as though seeing him for the first time. 

    "What?" 

    Malfoy sighed harshly, and shook his head. "Forget it. You came alone, then?" His eyes were darting about now, not just watching Ron. Watching _everything_, flickers of wary paranoia inside their chilly depths. The redhead shrugged and nodded. 

    "Yeah… what's with the letter?" he asked bluntly. He attempted to give out his best sneer, feeling awkward. "Standing around talking to you tonight isn't exactly my idea of a good time, _Malfoy_." 

    "Well, _Weasley_, we won't be standing out around here much longer anyway," Malfoy said sharply, glaring at him. The thin Slytherin boy reached down beside him, picking up a tan leather bag that Ron hadn't spotted before. "Let's go. We've got a while before time's up." 

    "_What_?!" sputtered Ron. "I'm not going anywhere with you!" 

    "Well, why'd you come then?" Malfoy snapped angrily. 

    "Because I-I thought we'd be… we'd…" 

    "Exchange pleasant stories of our home lives over hot cocoa in the greenhouse?" The sarcasm was almost oozing from the blonde's mouth now, and he shot another bruising, disdainful look at Ron over his shoulder. "I asked you here for a purpose, pauper, not so you could remind yourself of how pathetic your lifestyle is." 

    Ron filled with red; it glowed fiercely inside of him, burning his face and the tips of his ears as he glared harshly at his nemesis. 

    "Shut it, Malfoy." 

    "You agreed to come, so don't ask stupid questions," snapped the blonde fiercely. "I don't have the _time_ to deal with you. Just shut it and follow me. If you don't, then forget about it. Forget everything." 

    "I don't trust you," Ron replied coldly, his fingers touching swiftly upon the wand shoved in his pocket. "How do I know this isn't a trick?" 

    An unpleasant sneer formed on Malfoy's face, and for a moment, Ron thought he was going to make an acid, sarcastic remark. He froze, however, and slowly the expression faded into something more placid. Studying the redhead through silver, serious eyes, he pursed his lips thoughtfully. It was more peace than he'd seen on Malfoy's face in seven years, that pensive and opaquely uncertain sort of glance turned on him. It made Ron want to look away. It made something in him startle. 

    It was impossible for _Malfoy_ to say 'please'; not so impossible for this new face to say it. Not so strange. 

    "It's not a trick. I give you my word as a Malfoy, for as much as it's worth to you," the slender boy said simply. He gave a bitter twist of a smile that suited him better. "As I'm sure it's not worth anything, I'll also tell you that this little trip will give you the opportunity to do something you've wanted to do for seven _years_." 

    "What's that?" 

    Malfoy shrugged at him, saying nothing. 

    "That doesn't tell me much," Ron said quietly, but he was studying the blonde carefully. There was no malice in that face. Nothing he was used to. In some way, it was unnerving, and his relaxed response disturbed him on some distant level-- on the other hand, he was feeling a reluctant desire to trust in this. Curiosity wasn't helping. Curiosity had taught him (after living with so many brothers) that it was a bad idea to do this, but the temptation might prove to be worth it. 

    And then… _Please._

    "That doesn't tell anything," he repeated, and then said, "Lead the way." 

    The other boy didn't say a word. He turned on his heels, the gesture flashy and oddly Snape-esque in the method of which his robes billowed out behind him, and strode straight for the Forbidden Forest. 

    Ron stared after him a moment, and hated himself for thinking about going along with this crazy little fiasco. He knew that letter was bad news. Nothing good could come of being stuck with Malfoy in the Forbidden Forest, and his adventures with the giant spiders hadn't exactly warmed him to the place in question. 

    He found his feet following, anyway. 

    _'This is_ not _going to be pretty. Damn it.'_

~~~~ 

    It felt like they'd been walking forever. 

    Forever, it seemed, was a long time. Ron remembered his experiences in the Forbidden Forest, and none had been exactly pleasant. It was a dim, oddly subdued darkness that surrounded them, and he found himself glancing nervously into the shadows beyond the twisted tree trunks. So far, he'd completely gotten himself lost as to where they were; the path had morphed into an area he barely recognized, and even the deep green of the grasses seemed to mock his fear. 

    So far, Malfoy hadn't said a word. 

    _'See, this is all part of some insane plot to lure you into the woods where he's going to leave you for dead,'_ his mind had been rambling insanely. The paranoia was starting to struggle to the surface of his mind, and he gritted his teeth against it. If there was one thing he didn't want to do, it was loose cool in front of that bastard Malfoy. 

    That didn't stop the mantra: _'Shouldn't have come, shouldn't have come, oh man, shouldn't have come…'_

    It was entirely too dark in these woods. Ron shuddered at the vague sounds of movement far off in the distance-- the shuffling could be anything, ready to jump out and eat them. He'd seen what this place had to offer. The wolves, dragons, giant spiders, thestrals… he personally didn't feel like being dinner to any of the magnificent (yet terrifying) creatures that lived here. 

    "How much farther?" he finally asked. He almost jumped nervously at the sound of his own voice, and decided he was thankful that Malfoy was ahead of him, and thereby unable to see the ridiculous reaction. "We'll have been halfway to London, at the rate we've been walking." 

    Malfoy barely surveyed him with a glance of his shoulder. "It's not much farther, Weasel. Try being patient-- you know what that is, right?" 

    "Sod off, Malfoy." 

    "Lovely. Just remember that I know how to get you out, you miserable little do-gooder." It wasn't a threat full of malice, oddly enough, but entirely truthful. Ron scowled at the blonde's back and thought of yanking each and every strand out by its root. 

    "Whatever. I know the way." 

    "Of course you do. Now step carefully, there's some Lamenting Leaves planted alongside the path for the next few steps." 

    Ron fell silent, watching his feet, and they continued into an ever-growing darkness. He tried not to think about how, three years ago, Draco Malfoy would have never told him to avoid the plant. He would have had a great, gloating laugh over seeing Ron burst into sudden tears for no reason (as the plant was prone to cause). 

    He tried not to think about that, and as such, did. 

~~~~ 

    "We're here," Malfoy announced not fifteen minutes later. At least, Ron thought it had been fifteen minutes. Maybe. Maybe an hour. 

    It felt like forever. 

    "Doesn't look like anything important," he said quietly, and it was the truth. They'd finally stopped in a small grove of trees, not wide enough to call a clearing, but with a definite space in the tightly packed foliage. The moonlight lit gentle caresses on the leaves and, if not for the eeriness it produced, would have been hauntingly beautiful. As it was, Ron shifted nervously on his heels-- it was too silent in this part of the forest. 

    "It's _not_ anything important," Malfoy said dismissively, waving a hand as though to brush away the implication. His hair seemed to loose a bit of the silvery sheen it had in the darkness, looking more humanly blonde. For some reason, it comforted Ron. "But very few wizards come this far into the Forbidden Forest, and it's unlikely to be a marking place." 

    "What?" 

    "Nothing, never mind." The blonde boy turned his back to Ron, dropping his tan bag beside him on the ground. He bent, crouching down and reaching out with a slender, pale hand to touch the earth beneath them. It seemed unnatural; seeing his arch enemy and tormenter somewhere lower than he was, digging his spindly fingers into the black and soft dirt. His clean flesh was dirty now. Tainted. 

    Ron felt an irritating compulsion to drop to his knees, so he wouldn't have to stare down at the blonde head of hair beneath him. 

    "What are you doing?" 

    "Checking the ground soil," Malfoy murmured, his eyes distant and thoughtful. He stood and looked at his hand, pausing as if startled by the flecks of mahogany earth covering it. "I'm… checking. To see if it's soft enough to dig through." 

    Ron stared. "What?" 

    Malfoy wiped his fingers off delicately on his robe. "It's good enough. Might be harder on the way down, but good enough. Better." 

    "Why are you digging?" 

    "I'm not digging, _you_ are, idiot." 

    "Hold on," Ron sputtered, feeling utterly lost and confused. He gaped at the slender visage of his schoolmate, watching in complete shock as the blonde ignored him and crossed the space again. He was picking up his pack, muttering a spell under his breath and pulling something out of it. "I don't know what you're aski-- is that a _shovel_?!" 

    Malfoy looked amused for the first time. He smirked widely, pulling the slim garden shovel out of his pack. "Yes, Weasel, this is a shovel. I'm sure you've seen your fair share of them, what with having to do all the work at your little poorhouse. No doubt this can't be the first time you've used one, hm?" 

    "Shove it, Malfoy," the redhead said automatically. His blue eyes were fastened onto the tool, however, and the words seemed almost wooden. "Why've you got a shovel?" 

    "So you can dig with it, of course. I spelled my bag earlier-- a few charms, and it helped hide it fairly well. I imagine Filch won't be happy when he notices it's missing from the shed." 

    "You-you stole… from Filch…" gasped Ron, eyes widening in disbelief. He watched the blonde laugh a little in stunned clarity, before finally shaking his head and running a disbelieving hand through his tousled, fiery hair. It probably made the bush of crimson stand straight up on end. He didn't care. "Filch is going to _kill_ you." 

    "He won't ever find it if you return it to the shed before morning. Just do a cleaning charm over it before you put it back. He'll never notice." 

    "_Me? Why_ me? What's going _on_?! What are you talking about, you crazy prat, what's with the shovel and digging and you're stupid letter, why'd I listen--" 

    "Shut up, Weasel," snapped the blonde, and Ron clamped his mouth shut obediently on instinct. There was a hint of desperation and upset in that voice… something that made his earlier 'please' sound almost normal in Malfoy's usual icy demeanor. It was so odd that the redhead felt himself dazedly lean against a nearby tree, watching the blonde with wide eyes and intent ears. 

    The thin blonde didn't waste the opportunity. He took a deep breath, gray eyes composing themselves once more. His fingers-- somehow slightly unsteady even while in control-- began to undo the ties of his robe, slipping it over his slim shoulders to pool at his feet as he began to speak. 

    "Listen, Weasley. I asked you to come here because I thought, of all people, you might not give me away. You might even feel _glad_ to do it. Potter would give into his good, gold-hearted nature and run to tell Dumbledore. Your pretty Mudblood wouldn't have the guts. No one else would go along with it… you might not want to, but you're going to," Malfoy added, stepping out of his robes and letting them fall to the ground. 

    Ron didn't respond; his eyes were fixated on the sudden glimmering of light surrounding the blonde. Beneath his school robes, he was wearing obviously home clothing-- softly hued white robes, the sheen seeming to glow in the moonlight as they fluttered. The sleeves came down over his wrists and hands, brushing against his knuckles in gentle caresses of silk. It was expensive. It was rich and beautiful, twirling around his ankles and showing his milky collarbone. It made his eyes seem fiercely colored. 

    He didn't look human. He didn't look like Draco Malfoy. 

    When he found his voice, though it was strangled, Ron asked, "Nice outfit, but isn't it a little much for a duel in the woods?" 

    Malfoy laughed, touching the fabric with a cherished feel. "These are my favorites. Nice, aren't they? Mother imported them from somewhere out East, somewhere among the mountains, I believe. And I wouldn't be as stupid to waste them for a duel, you brainless fool." He flashed a sharp smile. "They're for a special occasion. One I want you to help me with." 

    "What's that?" Ron asked slowly, gazing uncertainly around them. The trees seemed to be mocking him, unmoving and silent in the unnatural stillness of the night. Malfoy was giving off more light than anything-- except it hurt to look at him for some reason, made him feel awkward and angry for no reason. 

    He'd always had that effect on him. 

    "Weasley." Malfoy's voice was gentle as steel. "You're not listening to me. You can't possibly be this stupid, can you?" 

    "Shut it, Malfoy," he said, but it was weak. The blonde laughed at him and waved a hand at their surroundings. 

    "Just take a good look and use that redheaded brain of yours to think. A discreet location, with good earth for digging? A stolen shovel to be returned in the morning? Pretty clothing not fit for anything except someone who decides it's worth the occasion? You, a person who hates me more than anyone, maybe even _Voldemort_?" The last name was drawled out, mocking and gleeful. He smirked at Ron's shudder at the sound of it. "Come now, you're not _that_ stupid, are you? Two of your brothers were prefects, you know." 

    His head felt as though it were spinning. The world seemed very, very far away, and the scornful words almost burned into his brain. It was hard to focus. He glared at Malfoy, blaming him, refusing to speak. 

    "Not yet?" the rich pureblood mused, before his gray eyes lit up. He snapped his fingers. "Ah, I have it! Maybe _this_ will get the blood stirring in your empty, rash head?" 

    He reached into his pack, and pulled out a knife. 

    _'Oh god.'_

    Malfoy stood up, and it seemed almost reluctant now. His eyes were focused on the blade-- a delicate, strengthened dagger with a silver-wrought handle, decorated in small snakes and what looked like ivy. A family heirloom? The blonde straightened and started walking towards him, dagger held in one hand. 

    _'Oh god. He's going to kill me and leave me dead, I knew it, knew it was a bad idea, I'm too young to die, that bastard--'_

    The tree trunk pressed against his back was starting to hurt. 

    "Here," Malfoy said, and suddenly he was too close to the redhead's face. Ron jerked back, but there was nowhere to go. "Don't be daft, Weasley, _take_ it." 

    He shoved the knife in Ron's hand. 

    Ron stared uncomprehendingly. It felt too cool against his skin, as though it'd been soaked in an icy flame for centuries, and not even his body warmth could faze the blackness of it. He looked up at Malfoy, then back to the knife. Then back at Malfoy. 

    He looked unearthly in the moonlight. He hadn't noticed it truly until now, as the blonde bent at his knees, pretty, pretty robes dropping into the black, ugly soil, the white stark against the ground and blending deeply into Malfoy's pale flesh. He looked as though he were composed of light. His hair fell in golden strands, his gray and deathly eyes suddenly terrified and excited and pained all at the same moment, and Ron had never, ever imagined them like that, couldn't dream of it, couldn't comprehend-- 

    Malfoy's lips moved. They were light pink. "You can't be _that_ stupid, can you?" 

    It felt wrong to be looking down at the boy. He looked unearthly. Odd. Wrong. 

    Ron felt his hand begin to tremble, and the knife dropped to the ground. 

    "Weasley? Weasley, are you listening to me?" 

    "You…" he forced himself to whisper harshly, feeling as though the air was being stolen from his lungs. It was starting to hurt. 

    Malfoy looked up at him, all odd and wrong and beautifully ugly there on the ground, and smiled bitterly. He had shell-like ears. He shouldn't, shouldn't be able to be real right now, because that was wrong, but-- 

    "What are you waiting for?" 

    "Malfoy?" 

    He raised his head, all pretty gray eyes, and gestured towards his neck. "Take what you've wanted for seven years. Bury my body when you're done, and destroy the evidence." 

    "What?" 

    "I want you to kill me." 

    _Please._

~~~~ 

To Be Continued: In Chapter Two, Draco unveils why he's suddenly decided Ron has to murder him, Ron argues, the war comes into play, secrets are revealed, and hell if Draco Malfoy doesn't always get his way. 

Yes, it's badly written and OOC. Can't write Hermione to save m'life. Am evil and horrible by leaving it off here. Will Draco get his way? Will Ron remember that Harry's cloak's still hidden, or will his kidneys be stapled to the nearest tourist attraction? Up until this point, it's been fairly cliche, I guess, but next part's going to be something completely different. Just keep reading. We're in for a long, odd, dark and depressing journey. Or something equally impressive sounding. ^_^ 

Who says I won't kill Draco-chan? (And gods... must say "Draco". All this "Malfoy" is going to kill me! Will soon get to that point, thankfully. Maybe.) 

... review? *blushes shyly* Please? 

~~~~ 


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